You are the colour of wheat. The hairs on your arm make me think of grass and singed hay and I smile when your cool touch reminds me of dirt. I don’t know why but I like you. I like us. I want to belong to you. I want this to matter. I want you to smile at my arm resting beside yours and forget this place where I live. This silky that rolls over and about my bones, that slithers over my blood, that sighs and lolls about in the hot glare of other men’s eyes.